


Eight Ball

by cjmarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Formerly Anonymous, Gen, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A damning, bonding moment outside a London club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Ball

**Author's Note:**

> For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt: Before they ended their drug use - Sherlock and Lestrade get high together.

He's pushing forty-eight straight and feeling it, his wits sluggish and his reflexes dull and his hands trembling just with the effort of turning doorknobs, of driving. It's not so noticeable right now, when he's gripping the edge of a bar and reaching for the inside pocket of his coat, but it'll be deadly when he's examining evidence at the latest crime scene. And the one after, and probably another after that as well, because this killer's on a spree and even after having called Sherlock Holmes onto the case they've got a long night ahead. A long, cold January night with icy, spattering rain just to make it that little bit more miserable.

Lestrade just needs something to help him keep going, keep alert, and he's run short right when he needs it the most.

The bloke with the bad hair is standing where he always stands, chatting up a blonde with a tattoo on the back of her neck, pausing only to do a spot of discreet business. Lestrade hasn't got long, especially after taking pains to strip away any signs of the DI in front of his name before entering the club, but he still pauses a moment, his instincts keen enough despite his fatigue to take it all in just in case he ever needs to recall.

"Just a little pick me up," he says when he finally approaches, but he doesn't need to explain himself. No one cares. He just needs to hand over the double folded notes, a swift hand to hand transaction, and accept the plastic packet that he drops into his coat pocket without even looking.

"Pleasure, as always," his dealer says. Lestrade doesn't look him in the eye. It's thanks to years of working these streets that he knows the fastest and easiest way to get his coke, but it's got a price. He's sacrificed discretion for anonymity, and if he's ever recognized and connected there's no getting out of it.

If his dealer knows, and he well might, then they have a mutual and complicit silence, because Lestrade's made sure he's never been nicked for his business.

"As always," he mutters, and takes another look around and then he's off through the back door before anyone remembers him.

Bloody Sherlock Holmes is waiting for him in the alley, even though Lestrade told him to meet him at the latest crime scene, a few blocks away. Of course he is, because bloody Sherlock Holmes has a map of the city in his head and a map of Lestrade's habits on top of it, and it's probably child's play for him to figure out where Lestrade's stopped on his way.

"That took you two minutes longer than I expected it to," he says crisply, and tucks his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat and falls into step beside him.

"Even you can't account for all the variables," says Lestrade. "Finished solving my crime already, have you? I can pack it in and head home?"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," says Sherlock. "There's no sense in me arriving before you do, McVicar will just hold me up at the door. And I believe you've got something for me."

"You owe me for it," says Lestrade, but he's said that before and it means about as much now as it has every other time. Sherlock's ability to solve the crime before breakfast makes them square.

He's parked around the corner, his police car conspicuous at the best of times, and the pavement even _sounds_ cold beneath their feet as they walk swiftly up the street. Last place he wants to be is out in this but there'll be no toasty flat for him tonight, not till this is all over.

"Get in," he says, and looks both ways before opening the door himself. Last thing he needs right now is someone knocking on his window. It's cold inside the car too, despite the fact that it hasn't been sitting long, but he leaves it off till they take care of business.

With Sherlock, too, there's a mutual and complicit silence.

He measures out two lines on the dashboard, both for him; Sherlock is particular about his cocaine, especially when he can't shoot up, and will want to set up for himself. It's inelegant but it does the job, Lestrade sniffing the powder through a narrow straw and collapsing back in his seat with a satisfied sigh after, waiting for the rush to hit. Sherlock's lines are cleaner, precise and parallel, and he's curiously silent as he inhales them.

Or maybe Lestrade's too focused on Sherlock's pulse now to hear him, watching it throb in his neck like the pulse of the dance club they just left. For a moment Lestrade can't look away, hardly remembers to breathe himself, then Sherlock wrinkles his nose, brushes away any stray powder with his finger, and time starts again.

"You've got some..." Sherlock says, and Lestrade just blinks at him. It'll hit any moment, that first burst of sharpness, but until it does he's calm and still, doing nothing more than making sure the car and his coat are clean. He doesn't even raise a hand as Sherlock reaches for his face.

He brushes his thumb around the curve of Lestrade's nose till it's clean then gives him a tight smile. "You're sorted," he says, then inhales sharply and closes his eyes, sitting back in his own seat.

Lestrade is ready for this now, the world growing bright and crisp around him, and finally pulls the car out into the street again. And when later tonight he starts to flag again, well, he's got enough to keep them both going till it's done. And maybe a little after, too, just because they can.


End file.
